


An Evening of Saying No

by Ragazza_Guasto



Series: Danger Night [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Flirting, BAMF John, Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock, Case Fic, Demisexual Sherlock, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Non-Consensual Kissing, POV John Watson, Public Sex, Top John, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been fending off Sherlock's sexual advances for six solid hours. Something has got to give eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening of Saying No

**Author's Note:**

> While on a case, John finds himself in a strange situation: Sherlock won't stop trying to have sex in the most inopportune places and times. Whatever will he do about it?

The sound of fingernails scraping on leather was horrendous but John certainly wasn't going to stop what he was doing to point it out. 

"Christ, that's good. Don't stop."

"I hadn't planned on it," John panted out. His death grip on Sherlock's hips was probably going to leave bruises but he couldn't seem to unclench his fingers. They had a good pace going now, John bottoming out inside Sherlock with abandon as he was bent over the arm of the sofa. They didn't normally engage in sexual activities during cases but when Sherlock Holmes asks you, in no uncertain terms, to roger him there on the sofa, well, if you're John Watson, you comply. 

A chirp sounded from the table and John did his best to ignore it the first time. When the ringtone went off he glanced down at in annoyance. 

"Shit. Double shit," he snapped.

"What?" Sherlock asked and whipped his head to the side to see. His head fell as he noted the caller. "Ignore it."

"We can't, Sherlock," he reminded the man as he slowed the pace, "he said he'd call when he was out front."

"I don't care. For the love of god, just hurry up!" He threw his arse back at John like an award winning porn star and John honestly forgot what he was arguing about.  

He groaned and pulled Sherlock back against him as he went back to giving it his all. Sherlock's nails went back to scraping at the leather.

A sound, a horrifying, flash-back-to-your-teenage-years-you're-about-to-be-caught-doing-something-embarrassing sound worked its way into John's ear canal and he instinctively threw himself backwards against the door to the sitting room. Sherlock hissed and then looked back in shock.

"Are you guys ready?" Lestrade called from behind the door, the knob rattled against John's side.   

They went into overdrive, pulling at pants and trousers. "Yeah, Greg, sorry. Meet you downstairs in a second," John called back. He prayed his voice didn't give them away. 

"All right. But hurry up, would you, we've got people waiting." His quickly retreating steps caused both men to breathe out in relief. 

Sherlock rushed forward and pinned John to the door with a wet kiss, his hand came down instantly to rest against his erection. John groaned in surprise, with only a few short seconds of baffled acceptance, before he gripped Sherlock's fragile wrist in hand and pushed him back. He caught Sherlock's stunned expression. Honestly, the man looked like he was going to cry.

"We can't. They're waiting on us," he explained. 

"Sod them. I'm harder than the entire Puyango Petrified Forest."

John snorted at that. Not only the vague reference but the fact that Sherlock was such a thirteen year old in a forty year olds body. An erection was treated like an ailment that must be dealt with under penalty of death. 

"You'll be fine. Your coat will hide it until you can calm down."

His face scrunched up like John had just suggested that he swallow a pine cone whole. "But John," he whined.

"Stop," he commanded seriously. "You need to focus on the case, remember? People's lives at stake? Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered you seemed to have forgotten, but I need you to get your head in the game, those kids need you. Yeah?"

Sherlock stared back like he was still on the verge of throwing a hissy fit but eventually he sneered and snatched his coat from where he'd thrown it in his earlier haste. 

"Fine," he snapped and then yanked the door John had leant against, knocking him completely off balance.

"Berk," John mumbled and grabbed his coat as well. 

If Lestrade was suspicious of their activities he didn't let it show. He'd learned that if he wanted to keep track of Sherlock and John, he'd drive his own car instead of taking a squad car. Sherlock refused to get into the back of one and John had never asked why. He didn't want to know. 

"Did Olivia talk?" John asked as they slid into the backseat.

Donovan answered the question while Greg started the car. "She gave us enough. They found the van she described just west of his last known location and we canvased the neighborhood but haven't found anything."

"Typical," Sherlock muttered. John slapped a hand onto his thigh in reprimand. 

"Yeah, I dare you to do better," she snapped. 

"Illogical, Sargent. Has our time together proven nothing?" He baited in a clear, steady voice; vain Sherlock to the core. John didn't know how he was pulling it off, as he'd snatched John's hand as soon as it had landed on his thigh and pushed it up, under his coat, to lay over his still throbbing erection. John's stomach did little flips to feel the weight of it, and he was so shocked he couldn't pull his hand away. Hell, he was so stunned he'd actually started stroking the magnificent thing.  He couldn't take his shocked eyes off Sherlock's face, the cool visage still snapping rejoinders at Sally as John worked him in his trousers.

Greg snapped, "Enough you two. Christ, you're worse than children," and John nearly jumped out of his skin. He wrenched his hand away in shock and glared at his partner in silent retribution. Sherlock just smirked and cocked an eyebrow.  

"Sorry, sir," Donovan quietly murmured. 

"Do I get an apology from you, brat?" Greg addressed Sherlock with a smirk clearly seen from the mirror.

"Yes, _Daddy_ , it won't happen again," Sherlock delivered directly at John. 

Greg burst out laughing but John was promising revenge, though his lips were unable to remain stern despite his best efforts. 

They talked shop until the car pulled up to the kerb beside an estate block of flats, more run down than they'd dealt with in quite a while. They'd mostly taken small, high end cases the last few weeks, a phenomenon that wasn't lost on John, nor his libido. This was a bit different, a case Lestrade had begged Sherlock to take, and since there were kids involved John had made sure Sherlock contributed his vast skills to the cause. 

Sherlock poured himself from the vehicle and made immediately for the van. John stood off to the side, glad it was near dark, since the shadows of the building were helping to hide the erection he hadn't fully willed away since the car ride. Sherlock's head appeared over top of the van and shouted at Lestrade to come. John waited patiently, silently a little worried Sherlock wouldn't be at the top of his game since he had seemed so distracted by their previous activities being ruined. When Lestrade strode back to Sally and told her to send a few men to the nearest corner shops to ascertain the identity of a white male between thirty and forty, who smoked Richmond Lites and only stopped by before eleven am, John's worry evaporated. Sherlock still had it. 

"Come, John, take a look at this."

John snapped to attention and stepped into the street to get into the van, buoyant with renewed faith and import.

“Yeah,” he looked around the inside of the van as he pulled himself inside, “what is it?”

“This,” Sherlock whispered and then pulled John forward until their lips crashed together. Sometimes, if he wasn’t careful, Sherlock’s full lips would completely over power his own. John couldn’t have that. He grabbed the front of Sherlock’s coat and took over the kiss, hungry still, since leaving the flat without satisfaction. But, really, would he ever be truly finished kissing Sherlock Holmes?

A growl escaped his throat and it shocked him enough to pull back. “Christ, look what you’ve got me doing,” he snapped in shock.

“Yes.” Sherlock smirked and leaned in for more. John had to nearly fall on his arse to get away.

“The police are barely a meter away!” He hissed.

Sherlock’s face screamed ‘And?’

He put a finger up to ward Sherlock off. “Not in front of our friends, who are _police detectives_ , for Christ’s sake.”

He cocked his head at that and then shrugged, as if suddenly the outcome didn’t matter. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” He questioned, obviously wary of a trap.

“Yes, John. I am capable of avoiding sexual assault charges when the need arises.”

John tugged on his coat. “All right then.”

“All right,” he agreed unnecessarily. “Let’s move on.” He brushed past John and slid out of the van gracefully. With one hand on the top of the door frame he turned and looked in after John. “Coming?”

“Yeah,” he answered, grateful to be back on task.

Donovan noted when they started off and called out, “Oi, where you two off to?”

“Canvasing,” Sherlock bellowed back. “Something you normally learn at the academy.”

"Don't go far, Sherlock," Greg called out, "I might need you again."

"I've got my phone," he answered.

John caught up and they set out down the street at a good pace.

"So, what did you really find?" John asked, curious at their destination.

"What?" He looked down. "Oh, nothing aside from his preferred smoke."

"So where are we going?" He asked with a frown.

"This should do nicely," Sherlock quipped joyfully.

John then found himself snagged by his coat collar and thrown sideways into a dark alleyway. His back slammed into the brick beside a filthy skip and then he was presented with a face full of snogging flatmate.

"Mmmmph," John complained. His hands came up and shoved hard at Sherlock's shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

John sputtered. " _Me?_  What are  _you_  doing?" 

"I should think that was obvious," he stated dryly and then wedged his long thigh between John's legs.

Despite his indignation John still tilted instinctively against him. Damn the man.

"What did we just agree on?" He managed. "The police are still around the bloody corner, you pervert."

Sherlock looked down at him, not in anger or sadness, but in contemplation. A niggle of worry skittered down his spine. His eyes perused John's frame until he couldn't take it anymore, he pushed past Sherlock and walked away. Or tried at least. He found his arm in Sherlock's grasp and pulled backwards until he was right back where he started. 

John gave his best intimidating scowl but it phased his flatmate none whatsoever.

"This is off limits?" Sherlock whispered.

"Well, yeah, obviously," John remarked.

"No, not obviously." He tugged John's jacket straight as if guilty. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't see it before." 

"See what?" His idiotic mouth asked before he could stop it. 

"You had a bad experience during your formative years. Male involved, most likely caught by his parent and threatened violently."

John felt sucker punched by this observation. He hadn't thought of that in years, certainly hadn't connected that moment to this one. But of course Sherlock had. 

"It's nothing. Let's get back," he snapped angrily. 

"It's not nothing, it's sexual repression. You shouldn't let it affect our relationship, John, it's unhealthy."

"What are you on about? Because I don't want to shag up against the wall in a filthy alley with the cops just down the street, some of whom we know personally, that makes me sexually regressed?"

"Repressed. Different concept. And, yes, I think it's something we should work on."

John scoffed. "Oh, you would. Works out well for you, eh?"

"I think I'm actually being extremely sensitive and helpful, actually, and I'd like some credit, if you don't mind."

"Bugger off," he snapped and pushed his way past Sherlock again. He walked back to the group of police without a backward glance. 

"That didn't take long," Greg noted upon his return, over-riding Donovan’s “Some canvasing.” John glanced back then to see Sherlock trudging behind him, an aura of Charlie Brown-esque dejection around his shoulders. They made eye contact and he stiffened up.

"Did they find anything yet?" Sherlock snapped at Lestrade. 

"No, not-" he started to say but his radio crackled and he picked it up. "Go ahead."

There was seemingly too much static for Sherlock to pick up from his position, if his frown was anything to go on, but Greg nodded and told the officer on the other end, "Good job."

"Alvin Petrov?"  John asked, having caught the name, used to picking out pertinent information amid the white noise.

"On it," Donovan chirped and dove into the car to type it into the system. She came back a minute later with an address. 

Sherlock looked around and then pinpointed the building in question. "There. He won't have been home since you found the van but we need to check regardless."

"Hold up," Donovan announced. "He's been in the system before for assault and he's on parole for involvement with the Chechen Mafia."

"Bet he's a Byki," Sherlock muttered.

Sally ignored him. "Says here he works the late shift at the refinery. He might not know we've found him yet."

"Call down there, find out if he's still on the job but don’t tip him off," Greg told her, he looked at the remaining men, "we'll head up to his flat quietly and see what we can find." Sherlock opened his mouth but Greg put a stern finger up before he could utter the first word. "You stay down here until we've cleared it. I mean it."

His scowl should have peeled the paint off Greg's car but he didn't remark. That was, he waited until Greg was halfway across the street with his men before he called out, "Do try and keep from stampeding all over the evidence, will you?"

Greg gave a two fingered salute and kept on walking. 

John snickered behind his wrist but looked away when Sherlock turned his scowl toward John.

Sally answered a call and shot out of the car with a grin. "They got him." She pulled the radio and repeated the news to Greg.

Sherlock huffed, clearly disappointed with the ease of capture. "Well? Can we go up yet?"

"Not yet, Rin Tin Tin. They're still clearing the scene."

Sherlock looked at John in dramatic confusion, as if to ask 'What could they possibly be doing that's taking so long?' John shrugged easily. Sherlock jammed his hands into his coat pockets impatiently and paced the pavement in agitation. They stood back from the road on the pavement, silent, petulant, until word came down from Greg that it was clear.

"Finally," Sherlock snapped. Sally rolled her eyes but followed without comment as they made their way into the building. Greg met them at the top of the landing to the third story, and motioned them inside. 

Sherlock went into deduction mode right away, his long legs ate up the floor as he made his way around the dingy flat. John couldn't help but watch in awe as he mumbled out deductions, observations, and critiques about Lestrade's men as it pertained to his work, or the hindrance thereof.  He stopped on a dime and flung his coat off, as the pace he'd worked himself into seemed to affect him temperature. A near unknown phenomenon in John's experience, but damned if he took it for the clue it was.  He flitted back and forth from the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, to the sitting room, where he flipped through books on the mantle and coffee table. A triumphant exclamation upon finding an ounce of cocaine inside one and a roll of pounds in another and then a scowl when Greg quickly reached out and snagged both from Sherlock's grasp. Greg tossed them to the C.S.I. on duty who quickly bagged them. John nodded in thanks when Greg turned his way with an eyeroll. 

"Any clue as to the-" He started to ask but Sherlock shushed him. He snapped his mouth shut with a growl. 

His sleeves were impatiently rolled up next and John's brow came down in confusion. It wasn't even hot in the flat. He watched as Sherlock silently counted the boxes of P.G.Tips and scowled to himself. Lord only knew what that meant. Well, the good Lord and Sherlock. When he bent over the top of the kitchen table, unnecessarily in John's opinion, and flipped through the ashtray John scowled even harder.  _Great_ , he thought,  _now his fingers are going to stink._

"He's exhausting to look at," Greg commented. John looked guiltily away from Sherlock's arse. Greg didn't seem to have noticed, but John was very aware that his attention had been on Sherlock's body and not his mind. 

"Yeah," he responded noncommittally. 

"But it's worth the attitude, isn't it? The outcome I mean. He's going to solve this case in half the time we would have. The bastard."

John watched as Sherlock's eyes lit up in excitement, pride in his own deductions, whatever they were. He smiled at John briefly but then he was off again, stalking into the bedroom. A C.S.I. member scuttled out seconds later in fear and John snickered. 

"Yeah, he's worth it," he agreed. 

“John, come in here and look at this,” Sherlock called out.

John narrowed his eyes at the open doorway. He was hip to Sherlock’s tricks now.

“No, thank you,” he called back.

“John,” he whinged.

“I said no!”

Several of the C.S.I. team eyed him in confusion but he ignored them. The regular crew knew how he and Sherlock were and the new ones would soon figure it out.

"You should be proud of him,” Greg commented casually, hands tucked into his coat pockets, continuing their previous conversation.

There came a crash from inside the bedroom and Sherlock called out, "I've got it. No worries."

John grinned despite himself. "I am. I am proud of him." He turned to look at Greg but upon noting the smug smile, nay grin, he was sending John's way he had to review what had just transpired. "No, I mean...You know what I meant."

"Mmm," he hummed and rocked back on his heels, smile still in place.

"Seriously, Greg, I didn't mean it like that."

Greg tipped his head back and looked him up and down. "Why bother, mate? I'm not an idiot. I mean if you want to keep it hush hush, that's fine, I'll take it to the grave, but c'mon. Everyone already assumes anyway."

John sputtered, unable to lay his eyes anywhere for long. Sherlock was right, he was rubbish at lying. "When did you figure it out?" He asked after deflating in defeat. 

"If it makes you feel better, I can pretend like it was today when you yelled through the door like a teenager caught with this first lad mag."

John groaned into his hands. "Christ," he moaned pitifully. 

Greg slapped a hand on his back and leaned in to mutter, "No one gives two figs about it but you John. Or have you not noticed that Sherlock has stopped wearing his scarves lately?"

"What?" He thought back; yeah, Sherlock wasn’t wearing his scarf. Hadn’t for a while actually. “What does that have to do with anything?”

"He's showing off, you great idiot. He's almost always sporting beard burn when I see you two, but does he cover it up to save me the embarrassment of seeing it? Hell no. Cause he wants people to see. He thinks everyone is as observant as he is in this. I might have noticed but apparently you didn't." Greg smiled like a proud parent. 

John shook his head. "All right. Fine." He stood a little straighter. "I am proud of him. Proud of us."

Greg clapped him on the back again. "Glad to hear it, mate."

"John!" Sherlock bellowed. "He's lactose intolerant!" 

"Excellent news," he called back with a grin. 

Suddenly, Donovan burst through the front door. "Sir, he escaped. They lost him behind the refinery, somewhere in the ship yard."

Sherlock rushed back into the sitting room. "I said he was lactose intolerant!" He accused them all of idiocy with his expression. There was several seconds of inaction but as soon as Sherlock growled in frustration and snagged his coat on the way out the door everyone snapped into action. 

They piled into their cars and ran several lights to get to the refinery, not far, but Lord knew how far he could have gotten by the time they arrived. Donovan yelled into the radio, confirming location and updates. 

"They've got him trapped in the ship yard. The only way out is the river and his hands are still cuffed but he managed to snag a nightstick off Daniels before he ran off."

"Fucking idiot," Greg mumbled. "Well regardless we need to catch him soon."

"Agreed," Sherlock replied. "How important is it that we catch him alive?"

"Very Sherlock," John snapped. "Christ."

"Normally I'd disagree with the Freak but I have to say, I'm not that worried about him falling in the Thames either."

"Thank you, Sally." Sherlock preened.

"Yeah don't get used to it," she set him down quickly. 

"You're both not thinking long term here," Greg informed them. "We need him to connect us to the buyer. Without that bit of intel all we've got is a lowlife thug who will slip through the system again in three years."

"One low life thug who won't be kidnapping girls and selling them on the sex slave market," Sally pointed out.

"And one more will spring up in his place if we don't take down the whole operation."

"I'm on it," Sherlock calmly informed everyone in the car. "What?" He looked around at them as they all stared at him incredulously. Then Greg slammed on the brakes and spun them out in the gravel outside the refinery.

"Whoa. That was close," he chuckled as he finally stopped the car.

“Yeah let’s not do that again,” Sally suggested dryly.

They quickly hopped out of the car and jogged over to where the other constables had gathered. Sherlock wedged himself in between two others and no one seemed to question his appearance. John hung back just behind as the constable in charge went over what had happened, where they believed his location to be. A police helicopter was already in the air, circling the area with its spotlight. John only just followed the train of the conversation, despite his best efforts, as his focus seemed to be on his conversation with Greg and the one before with Sherlock. Was he sexually repressed? Did it matter? It’s not like his and Sherlock’s sex life was going to suffer if he didn’t let Sherlock have his way with him up against the a filthy brick wall where anyone could happen by…But if it was something Sherlock wanted to do, something that turned him on, shouldn’t he at least try? Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, he felt a little pressure in his chest ease up, like the fact that Greg knew made the idea of getting caught a little more palpable. Sherlock was right, he was repressed. He’d let plenty of his girlfriends talk him into fooling around in public before. Hell, he’d fingered Alisa, the last girl he’d slept with, on the tube the morning before they’d broken up. It was the thought of being caught with a bloke, the disgust he feared seeing in the eyes of anyone who might happen by, a fear that could be laid at the feet at Peter Browning’s father, that kept him from trying. Christ, Sherlock was bloody scary sometimes. But Greg’s words had lifted a fog, like he could take a deep breath and relax for the first time in weeks. He was in a relationship with the man he loved, who loved him back ferociously, and they were in a perfectly healthy sexual experimentation phase of the relationship, for Sherlock’s benefit he reminded himself. Not to say necking in public was acceptable, not to mention legal, but if that was something Sherlock wanted to try, he needn’t shy away at the idea in horror.  All he could hope was when the time came to inform Sherlock of his resolution he could actually go through with it.

“John,” Sherlock had sidled up next to him and whispered out the side of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he answered as quietly as he could given the noise.

“Try not to look conspicuous,” he ordered and then slowly let himself float away from the group. John mentally rolled his eyes but followed as the man sank into the shadows in a manner befitting Dracula himself. John probably looked more like The Count from Sesame Street- the smaller, cuddlier version.

“What are we doing exactly? You can’t think Greg isn’t going to notice we’ve slunk off. I’d like to spend tonight in our bed, not a cot in a cell, if it’s all right with you.”

Sherlock sent him a frown. “What’s more important, John, your lumbar support or stopping a man from kidnapping teenage girls and selling them into sexual slavery?”

John scrunched his face up in frustration. “God damn you,” he growled. Sherlock gave him a ‘Well?’ look and John shoved him. “Go, before I sell _you_ into sex slavery.”

“Hmm, that could be fun. A different take on Captain Watson’s good little soldier?”

John let a slow breath out before responding.  He cursed Sherlock seven times over and he knew his face conveyed this fact clearly. All he received was a smirk. _Stupid, sexy wanker_ , he continued to internally swear. 

“This way,” he directed with a tug on John’s sleeve. They moved quickly but with caution around the large steel pipes on the grounds. He had no idea why Sherlock thought he could catch this sadist before the police did but he’d learned to trust Sherlock’s instincts and he could usually be counted on to pull them out of his greater blunders with a heavy hand and a stern voice.

“Do you know-“

“Shh,” Sherlock hissed and slapped a hand over his mouth.

John quickly found himself turned and pulled into an alcove between two parked lorry’s. Sherlock’s breath fell heavy into his ear and John couldn’t help but melt back against him for a moment. The danger of the moment seemed to take a back seat to the feel of Sherlock’s large hand skimming from his lips to his jaw and down his throat to rest against the base of his neck, thumb resting softly in his suprasternal notch. His other came around to rest against John's abdomen, using just the slightest bit of pressure to force John further against his lean frame. Now was not the time, he knew that, but damn if it didn’t feel good to be enveloped in pure, unadulterated want. Just the feel of Sherlock’s silky curls against his face as he ran his nose along John’s cheek was enough to make him sigh in pleasure. It wasn’t until his hand began to creep further down past his belt that John snapped out of his revelry.

“Not here,” he breathed. “Sherlock, not here.”

The movements stopped but Sherlock continued to breathe into his ear. “Please,” he whispered.

John groaned in pain. It was so very, very hard to say no. He turned in Sherlock’s arms and locked their lips together, bit down on that plush bottom lip until Sherlock whimpered. Curls wove around and between his fingers and he tugged, just a bit, just enough to cause another glorious, keening vibrato from Sherlock’s throat.

“Soon,” he whispered against cupid bow lips. “The sooner we solve the case, the sooner we can go home, yeah?”

“But-“

“No buts. There’s a member of the Russian Mafia roaming loose and we’re too busy snogging to stop him. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” he hissed and closed the distance between them again.

“Dammit.” He had to take several steps back before Sherlock stopped trying to cling to him. “Look at what you’re doing. We are in the midst of an investigation for crying out loud. What if he gets away?”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that!” John whispered as loudly as he dared. “What if one of the other officers catches him before you do?”

He shrugged. “Then we go home sooner. Sounds fine to me.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t Sherlock. This was Sherlock on sex hormones; completely mad like some rabid thing. “I’ve created a monster.”

Sherlock affected a put upon sigh and shoved past John like a dark cloud bent on raining on someone’s parade. John wanted to call out but he didn’t know if the coast was clear, even though Sherlock obviously believed it was, so he just followed as the man strutted away. They made their way toward the River in a hurry; he practically had to skip to keep up.

“Would you slow down,” he hissed, “not all of us have legs up to our eyebrows. Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Yes, John. Despite what you clearly believe, I’ve not gone senile in my pursuit of the illicit.”

Sherlock stopped suddenly, coat swirling around his shins like a cape, as he surveyed the loading docks. He mouthed silently to himself before choosing a seemingly random shipping container. They crept up to it on silent feet. John nodded to the container in question and Sherlock tipped his chin once in acknowledgment, then bent and scooped up a bit of old, rusted pipe, hefting it into the air, testing its weight. He gave John the go ahead and on the count of three he gripped the steel door and yanked it open.

The man inside-of course he was-immediately ran at them and started yelling, Russian gibberish mostly. To John’s great surprise Sherlock answered in kind, a smile tipping the corners of his lips, as he let the man sail pass. This was the detective in his physical element. John felt a bit superfluous honestly, as he stood back and watched Sherlock advance on the kidnapper. Petrov was stocky, well-muscled but obviously turning to fat around the middle, and it made his movements slow, uncoordinated. He was still handcuffed but he was wielding the stolen nightstick two handed, like a sword, and Sherlock’s stance changed accordingly.

“Fencing? Really?” John muttered.

“Harrow Boys Champion, four years running,” he answered, hand on his back, pipe in the air waving jovially.

John’s lips pursed. “Course, yeah.”

He watched in rapt attention as Sherlock toyed with the bloke, poking him in random spots with the end of the pipe. He was having a grand time of it. Petrov blustered and shouted, made a few pathetic attempts at swinging his weapon but Sherlock easily sent his crashing into it with jarring effect.

“Would you quit toying with him so we can go?”

“Right,” he agreed.

His arm came almost all the way back and sent Petrov’s club sailing out of his grasp with a crash. The man looked stunned and quickly put his hands up in surrender but Sherlock didn’t stop there. In a blur, he managed to slip the pipe between the man’s cuffed wrists and then wrench it sideways with both hands. The man cried out as he had no choice but to turn with the motion. His legs were then kicked out, the pipe flipped up, caught at the end, and then brought down sharply across his temple. John stood aghast as the perp fell, forehead bloodied and eerily silent.

“You killed him,” he whispered in shock.

Sherlock looked down. “No,” he muttered and then head cocked to the side, “Eh, maybe.”

“Sherlock! Jesus! You can’t just- Look out!”

He didn’t give his partner a chance to react, he gripped him by the lapels and yanked him backwards into the shipping container. They fell back against the metal with a huff as bullets ricocheted off the door and went pinging off into the distance.

“How many?” Sherlock asked.

“Just the one, I think,” he panted. “Black coat, your height, angry.”

“Caliber?”

“.38,” he answered and attempted to look around the corner, only to be shot at again. Sherlock pulled him back by his coat.

“I’ve an idea,” Sherlock whispered in his ear as soon as John’s back met his front, “do you trust me?”

“Of course,” he replied immediately, turning his head to look Sherlock in the eye.

 “Right, help me get his feet.” He maneuvered John out of the way and bent to grab one of the kidnapper’s legs. John stared for a second before joining him and together they tugged the man further into the container.

“This is mad,” John mumbled. “I need to check for a pulse.” He moved to press two fingers to his wrist but Sherlock smacked his arm away.

“Don’t bother, he’s gone. See?” He pointed down at the body. “Soiled himself.”

“Oh, great,” he remarked, noting the dampness around the crotch. He could faintly make out the sadly familiar smell of human waste, now that it was pointed out to him, just over the strong smell of damp and river pollution. A part of him, the Doctor, was horrified by Sherlock’s cavalier attitude about the blatant murder of a suspect, but the practical part, the Soldier, was wondering what the next move was. They had seconds before the armed assailant was upon them.

“Now, let’s get him up. Quickly,” he snapped when the accomplice started shouting in Russian.

“If you’re thinking of using him as a human puppet, I’ve got to say, as entertaining as that would be, I don’t think it’s going to work,” he huffed as they did their best to heft the man’s considerable dead weight.

Sherlock actually laughed. “Not _exactly_ what I had in mind.”

“Then what?”

“Human shield.”

“What?!”

“Now, John,” he commanded and then shoved off hard, nearly landing John face first in the dirt. They hefted the kidnapper just long enough to startle the accomplice, who came around the corner, gun drawn. He fired off two shots before they collided. John waited to hear a cry of pain but when none came he concluded that the shots had been absorbed by the kidnapper. If he wasn’t dead before, he was now. They dropped the corpse and scrambled to stay upright; Sherlock wasted no time plowing forward with his fist once they were righted, but the man must have an iron jaw because the blow glanced of bone and he barely reacted. Sherlock started ranting in Russian, clearly taunting the accomplice into making a mistake, when he set his sights on John.

In a rare moment of clarity, John watched the gun swing up and stop level with his face. In the background he saw Sherlock’s widening eyes, clear in the floodlight from the steel yard; and in the foreground, the barrel of a snub nose .38 Smith & Wesson just centimeters from his front teeth. He acted accordingly.

His torso twisted quickly to the right while he simultaneously caught the barrel and twisted the gun out of the Russians grasp. It was in John’s hand before the man could blink.  His palm burned from where he’d gripped the hot metal but his hand didn’t shake as he leveled it in the air. After it was clear that he’d been bested, the man immediately put his hands in the air.

“You’re lucky you were smart enough to keep your finger off the trigger,” he said conversationally. “I could have broken it. Sherlock, tell him to get on the ground.”

Sherlock was busy staring at John like he was the second coming but he did mutter some vague bit of Russian. When the man turned to look over his shoulder in horror Sherlock snapped, “No, not you. Him.” He pointed at John.

“What the hell are you telling him?” John demanded.

“He says he take you home and ride you like cowboy,” the Russian translated in broken English.

“Christ, Sherlock, really?” He roared incredulously over the sound of the sudden arrival of the helicopter. “In front of the Mobster?”

“What?” He mouthed with his shoulders comically high.

“Inappropriate for one,” he yelled. “Timing for another.”

“As if those things matter in the long run. If I want to tell the world about how sexy you look with a gun in your hand I will.”

John glanced at the Russian in embarrassment.

“Hey, I don’t judge,” the mobster yelled, “but could you maybe do this at your home? Where I can’t hear about the things you say?”

“If we even make it home.” He looked at his partner. “Did you forget that you killed a man?  And then I helped you desecrate his corpse?”

“We’ll deal with it,” was his only answer. He looked away as Lestrade’s men caught up with them. The armed units got there first and yanked the accomplice to the ground to cuff him. One of them yelled over the whir of the helicopter, questioning what had happened to Petrov, and Sherlock quickly stepped in to explain. John shouldn’t have just stood back, but really, what more could he do? His heart rate tripled when the constable pulled a pair of cuffs and snapped them onto Sherlock’s wrists.

 _No_ , his mind screamed. _Not like this, things like this don’t happen. Sherlock is untouchable_. _You can’t_ actually _arrest him._

Right on time, like a guardian fucking angel, Greg jogged onto the scene.

“Whoa, hold on, why is he being cuffed?”

The constables glanced at each other nervously. “He killed our suspect, sir,” one of them explained.

Greg looked at the body and then at John. His questioning glance asked John if Sherlock was covering for him. So, he hadn’t exactly gotten away with the Hope shooting. He’d have to remember to send Greg a thank you card for not arresting him that first night.  He answered Greg’s silent question with the downturn of his lips and the slight shake of his head. He would like to have taken the blame for his lover but the evidence would prove otherwise.

Greg nodded once. “Right,” he pointed, “get him out of those cuffs.”

“But sir-“

“Now!” He roared. “I mean it. As far as I’m concerned he did the public a favour. No one in this office will be pressing charges, is that understood?”

The constables looked at each other and then mumbled their agreement. One of the men uncuffed Sherlock.

He rubbed at his wrists, which John stepped forward to look at, despite his knowledge that they hadn’t done any damage whatsoever. He really just wanted to reassure himself that Sherlock wasn’t leaving, rub his thumb over the fragile bones of his hands and squeeze his relief into his partners skin. 

“What about Donovan?” Sherlock questioned, pointing out the obvious weak link in Greg’s directive. “She’s been waiting to pin a murder on me for years.”

“She brought this case to my attention, personally interviewed each girl that was found.” He glanced down at the lump of flesh that had once been a Russian sex slave trader. “Something tells me she’s not going to kick up a fuss over this one.”

“Right,” Sherlock muttered. His relief wasn’t obvious but John knew him well enough to know the signs.

“So?” Greg questioned patiently. When Sherlock’s brow furrowed he answered with raised eyebrows. “Don’t get shy on my now. How did you find him?”

“Oh yes,” he quipped, “dull really. I assumed his place of employment wasn’t an accident. I believe if you look you’ll find several of the refinery’s employees are Russian immigrants. The position on the river makes for easy transportation of the ‘goods’, so to speak, and the shipping containers are excellent storage and hiding. Locating the suspect was merely knowing the best location for one to remain hidden from the shipping yard via the river access, coupled with the likelihood he would have access to a mobile for emergency extraction. Which container was determined by simply following the most used footpath from the back end of the shipping yard to the river. The hinges gave it away as well; too well oiled for one supposedly seldom used.   My only mistake was assuming there hadn’t been enough time to call for backup.” He looked at the accomplice, who was watching all through the back window of a squad car. “When he started shooting I made a snap decision and took out the first and least threatening member. His death was accidental.”

Sherlock was smart enough not to look at John as he blatantly lied about the timeline. John was smart enough not to correct this fallacy. His conscience would take the hit easily, he couldn’t risk them arresting Sherlock. They might be able to chance Mycroft pulling some strings but if it could be avoided altogether, all the better. Avoiding a trial meant avoiding perjury after all.

“Right,” Greg scrubbed a hand over his head, “we’re still going to have to get statements. Just wait for me in the car while I clear this up.”

They nodded and walked casually back to Greg’s car. Sherlock gallantly, by rote at this point, held the door open for him and John slid silently into the beat seat. He waited until the door closed before pulling Sherlock down for a hard kiss.

“You stupid git,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips, their foreheads pressed together in the dark.

“John,” he started to say.

“Shut up. If you think I would say anything, you’re even dafter than I thought.”

“I’d never presume,” he shyly mumbled.

John scoffed and pulled back to look Sherlock in the eye. “I’ve been protecting you from the first, what makes you think that would ever change?”

Sherlock visibly sank and then immediately puffed up in such a vain way John felt his eyes crinkle with the strain of not laughing outright.

“Christ, I love you, you mental bastard.” He pulled Sherlock down again and pressed their lips together, melted together in such familiar heat, it was a wonder really why they hadn’t combusted yet.  He hoped he never became used to it. The feel of Sherlock’s curls between his fingers, the press of his lips, the taste of his breath as it brushed across his tongue, these things still felt like some sort of miracle and the moment he took them for granted, he would no longer deserve to have them.

When Sherlock started pushing him back down on the seat John couldn’t help but start laughing into his mouth. He backed up and looked down. At was dark but he could still make out the look of indignation his face.

“Not in Greg’s car, you loon. Wait until we get home.”

“But that could be hours,” he whinged and squeezed John’s biceps in his grip.  “Lestrade will have us giving statements and filling out paperwork until dawn.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have clocked that bloke so hard in the head, then, hmm?” Sherlock scowled so hard his brow looked to be permanently furrowed. “Why don’t you use your mouth for something other than snogging for a bit and talk Greg ‘round, see if he won’t let us go early?”

Speaking of the man, he crossed over to the driver’s side and got in the car with an angry huff.

“Maybe not then,” John muttered and sat up fully.  “Where’s Donovan?” He asked casually, as if Sherlock hadn’t just been laying on his chest, when Greg started up the car.

“She’s getting a ride from Thompson,” he answered as they pulled out. “Wants to go over to Bokarov’s flat, see if they can’t tie him to Petrov’s Chechen contacts. Making the connection will wrap this case up.”

“Bokarov? The accomplice?” Sherlock asked as he fixed his collar, professional once again with the new information.

“Yeah, Andrei Bokarov, his prints were in the system for burglary and assault. Apparently there was no real love lost between the two men, he was just closer at the time Petrov’s call went out.”

“Are we headed back to NSY?” John asked.

“It’s late, Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupted before he could answer, “can’t we skip the formalities for tonight?”

“Oi. I just got you off a murder charge, what more do you want?”

“I want to go home. I want John to finish rog-“

“Ahhh, it’s fine Greg,” John awkwardly interrupted. “We are _very_ appreciative, aren’t we, Sherlock?” He gripped the man’s thigh and squeezed.

“Yes,” he snapped, the antithesis of appreciative. Greg, for his part, stayed thankfully silent on Sherlock’s outburst. In fact, the travelers all silently agreed to keep all opinions to themselves all the way back to the station. On the way out of the car Sherlock sent John a glare, as if to say ‘This is all your fault.’ John returned the look with an extra dosing of ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your opinions to yourself.’ Captain Watson was not afraid to make a public appearance. He’d done it before to corral the consulting infant, he’d do it again.

“Park it in my office, I’ll be back in a second,” Greg motioned vaguely at his office and walked away.

They shuffled past the empty offices, clearly both nearing the end of their energy reserve, and sat heavily in the chairs in front of Greg’s desk. Sherlock reached out and snatched the tiny MU bobble head toy that sat on the desk and shook it petulantly. John tried not to smile and failed. Greg snatched it out of his hand on the way in and replaced it with a paper cup of coffee. Another was placed in front of John and, once he set the toy back in its place, sat down behind his desk with a huff.

“Ta,” John muttered.

Greg sipped his and sighed. “Now, before we start with the paperwork, tell me; what _actually_ happened?”

John and Sherlock looked at each other first. This was a bit different than lying about how they’d gotten into a suspects flat or how he’d gotten the bump on the head. This was covering up details of a murder. Sherlock gave a small nod and John agreed. They looked to Greg and spilled. An hour later, after explaining that everything they’d admitted to at the scene was true, only the seriousness of the accomplices timing was off. The actual murder had been an accident.

“I’m certain I can swing it,” he said after a beat, pen tapping the newly signed papers. “I’ll see that Molly gets the body. There won’t be anyone to dispute the desecration of the corpse, no family to speak of and as far as Bokarov tells it, not many within the group liked him to begin with. They were probably on their way to taking him out themselves to be honest. Sounds like he was messy, bound to get them caught sooner or later.”

“Right,” John muttered.

“Are we done, Inspector Lestrade?” Sherlock droned as if boredom were about to drive him round the twist. In reality he was bouncing his knees and gripping his shins like a lifeline. He looked like a massive five year old.

Greg cracked a smile. “Yeah off with the both of you.” He stood when they did. “I’m off to see to the body.”

John stooped down to tie his shoe, and good that he did, else he might have missed it. Sherlock’s hand that was, as it gracefully snaked into Greg’s coat pocket as he passed and then slipped seamlessly into his own. He didn’t catch what Sherlock had grabbed, Greg's badge again most likely.

Instead of outing his partner then and there he called out, “We’ll be off out in a minute. I need to talk to Sherlock.”

“Right,” Greg called back from the lift. “Lock up behind you.”

“We will,” John agreed with a wave. His smile fell as he slowly turned to Sherlock. His hand came out patiently.

“What?”

“Give it,” he snapped.

“I’m not aware-“

John didn’t let the lie stand. He immediately dove for Sherlock, hand diving with precision into the huge, ridiculously deep pocket of his coat. Sherlock cried out in panic and clamped a hand around John's wrist in protest. A battle ensued, one the likes of which only people with siblings could recreate. 

“Give it!”

“No!”

“Sherlock I swear to god-Ow!”

“Let go!”

His hand had finally grabbed hold of whatever it was, and when it gave in his grasp with a distinct crinkle and odour, they both stopped thrashing - John in shock, Sherlock in horror. He let John pull the offending object from his pocket. John looked down at the crushed box in his hand.

“You…”

“John, I-“

“No,” he snapped, hand in the air. “I don’t want to hear the excuses.”

“I just wanted one, just one, to take the edge off.”

John looked up, and he’s not sure the exact look he has on his face but whatever it is it made Sherlock flinch.

“Did you really think you were going to get away with this?” He whispered, cigarette pack still clenched in his fist.

“I was going to wait until after, when you were asleep. It was a brilliant plan actually. I was going to wear the Maths teacher disguise and walk over to-“

“I don’t care what the sodding plan was. The plan to smoke and then lie to me about it,” he growled and threw the pack down. “And I thought it was about taking the edge off? If they come after the sex what exactly are they taking the edge off of?”

“I’m an addict, John,” he snapped back. “I was before we met, during our ridiculously long courtship, and I still am today. Probably will be until the day I die.  If you weren’t going to help with the sex, I shifted the craving. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?”

“Partly,” Sherlock answered easily.

“Right. That’s it.” He snatched Sherlock by the lapels and threw him down onto Greg’s desk. Buttons were sacrificed in the name of efficiency as he tore at cloth to get at skin. His teeth clamped down on soft tissue and Sherlock was quick to spread his legs to allow John closer.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, voice already wrecked with both satisfaction and want. He thrashed, shifted this way and that, in an attempt to get his Belstaff off his shoulders while John had him pinned down.

John’s hand slid down Sherlock’s concave stomach, just a whisper of contact over his straining erection, before he ghosted down.

“Are you still open for me, do you think?” He questioned congenially. All he received was a whimper and a thrust back. He ran his middle finger up and down lightly. “Maybe I don’t even care,” he mused. “Maybe I go in anyway, after all the bollocks I’ve put up with tonight.”

Sherlock gasped, either at the idea or the sensation of John’s fingers toying with him through his trousers; he didn’t know, didn’t care. 

It had been a few hours but there was a good chance he could do it without prep and without extra lubrication. Only one way to find out. He yanked Sherlock’s belt open, the button and zip next, and then tugged until the offending material was pulled down enough for John to get at his goal. He kept the trousers partly on so Sherlock couldn’t spread his legs. This was new and he looked up at John in slight confusion. When John gripped him by the ankles and lifted his legs up, thus lifting his arse up, the goal became clear. He helped by scooting further down and John made quick work of getting his cock out one handed. One stroke and he was ready to line himself up.

“Wait!” Sherlock cried out.

John looked around his legs in surprise.

“I brought condoms, in my coat,” he flailed his hand to indicate the Belstaff laying half on, half off his person. “Right inside pocket. Get one, no clean up.”

John growled but it was surprisingly sound advice, considering it came from someone who had been reportedly sex starved all day.  He lunged for the stupid coat and after some fishing, in which he came up with a string of Chinese fire crackers, a tube of women’s lipstick and a grape, he found the condom. It was rolled on with military efficiency. Without warning, he slipped two fingers inside Sherlock to test the remaining elasticity. Sherlock had the frame of mind to jam his coat covered arm onto his mouth to cover the loud groan.

“I can work with this,” he mused, toying the opening wider with a quick scissoring motion, one he knew Sherlock liked.

“Honnnn,” Sherlock’s muffled voice keened. “’Urry.”

John cracked a smile and wasted no more time. He’d been waiting just as long after all. Sherlock’s body gave a token protest at the intrusion, one the man himself forced to overcome. John, once again, found himself practically holding on for dear life as Sherlock worked himself down the length of his cock. He wrapped one arm around the tense and rocking legs that were thrown over his shoulders and his hand went down to steady his prick until they were finally flush. Sherlock’s groan should have rocked NSY on its foundation.

John steadied Sherlock with a hand to his chest, his heaving, flushed chest, and pulled back out. It quickly became apparent that holding his lover down was not going to be an option. Not if they didn’t want to break Greg’s lamp in the process. He enraged Sherlock to the point of spitting when he pulled out but when he flipped the swearing git over John received a happy sort of noise.

“Unnhh,” Sherlock moaned loudly when John slid back inside.

“There, that’s better,” John soothed. He enjoyed the way Sherlock gripped the edge of the desk for support, the white of his knuckles accenting the flush of his skin beautifully, the desperation in his grasp. The play of muscles in his back was especially beautiful, what of them he could see beneath the ruined button down. John did his absolute best to concentrate on the small things, certainly not the hot, hot heat surrounding his prick or the sight of himself disappearing inside. If he so much as glanced down it would be all over. It didn’t help that he already knew what it looked like, so really squeezing his eyes shut was doing nothing to help. 

“Are you close?” He asked desperately.

 “Don’t you dare,” Sherlock snarled. “I’ve been close all night, you could have had it at any time, and you’re going to rob me _now_? On _Lestrade’s desk_?”

John groaned in a rush of endorphins, the reminder of where they were sending prickles of excitement across his skin. “I’m so close.”

“Then you better fuck me hard, John Watson,” he angrily swore.

John answered by gripping a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and pulling him backward with it. Sherlock’s back bowed with the maneuver and he sucked in a great, shuttering breath. John slammed into him with abandon, given free rein as it were. The desk was rocking dangerously, the pencil holder and various other detritus a lost cause.  When Sherlock fumbled for John’s hand, the one at his hip, and brought it around to grip his leaking prick, John knew he was close. He bent his knees, just enough to create a different angle and Sherlock’s breathes reached the point of being considered cries.

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” John mumbled needlessly. “Let go, I’ve got you.” He ran his fist over Sherlock’s sensitive head, lightly brushing the crown with every upstroke the way he liked, and when he started clenching, John squeezed harder.

“John,” he called out. The vibrations of his voice went through John’s chest and settled in his guts.

As soon as he was sure Sherlock was finished- the evidence of which was obvious on the floor at their feet- he pulled out and ripped at the condom. He made quick work of finishing, all over Sherlock’s arse and back. The man gasped; in shock, horror, or delight time would tell. John couldn’t have cared less. He was too busy looking to the ceiling in bliss.

“That was glorious,” he panted out.

“The point,” Sherlock took a steadying breath, “my dearest John, of wearing a condom, was to serve as a deterrent for your inability to last any length of time and for ease of clean-up. You’ve succeeded at rendering both purposes useless.”

“I’m sorry, _darling_ , I couldn’t hear you over the sound of that fantastic orgasm.”

“The orgasm is over, try again.”

“Speak for yourself,” he quipped and slapped Sherlock’s arse cheek with the end of his cock with a laugh.

“I could murder you fantastically,” his threat made null by the fondness in his voice.

John grinned and made quick work of his pants and trousers. “Seems to me like I got over that sexual repression, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmm,” he hummed back noncommittally and stretched with languid grace.

“Now if we could just get you to work on staying focused on cases instead my cock, we’d have ourselves a genuine breakthrough.” He laughed as he bent to pick up Greg’s spilled pens and pencils.

“I’m never not going to be thinking about this, at least on some level. You’re just going to have to deal with the consequences.”

“Oh, really? I _have_ to?” He imbued his voice with a hint of military command. “When we get home we’re going to have a _serious_ talk about this.” Sherlock practically purred in contentment. Bloody shame he didn’t respond to the voice when it commanded him to do the dishes or clean out the fridge.

John opened his mouth to say so but before he could the ding of the lift was heard echoing in the silence of the abandoned office.

“No. No no no no,” John whispered in a horrified clip. He rushed to tug Sherlock’s trousers up and was slapped six ways from Sunday when he tried to mop up the mess he’d made on Sherlock’s back with the tail of his shirt. By the time they had their clothes fixed Lestrade was casually walking inside. He stopped abruptly and after a four second scan of the floor(pencils still strung about), Sherlock’s shirt(buttons missing), John’s flaming face(cherry tomato red) and the state of his desk, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly in barely concealed rage, one that seemed aimed more at himself than anything, as if he was telling himself he should have known better. John felt his progress had come a long way since being caught by Peter Browning’s father. He didn’t cry this time at least.  

“I hate you both. Get out of my office.” He pointed out the door.

They scrambled, bumping into each other in the doorway. John heard Greg mumble about his damn cigarettes and then slam the door.

The two deviants looked at each other and proceeded to giggle all the way home.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes made were my own, as I posted with the bare minimum of editing. Feel free to send corrections. Feedback is key. :)  
> Kudos and comments are my life blood. They keep me going, so if you enjoyed, please let me know!  
> Come explore the vast wasteland of my mind at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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